


Delightful, Morally Dubious

by peevee



Series: Consequences [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Fingering, M/M, Sleepy Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets his own back.</p><p><i>“And since when have you ever cared about </i>wrong<i>, Sherlock?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Delightful, Morally Dubious

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Delightful, Morally Dubious | 轻薄](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787749) by [yikshuontheroad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikshuontheroad/pseuds/yikshuontheroad)



> Several people requested this filthy little sequel, so here you go, you dirty minxes. Enjoy!

John wakes warm, sweaty, slightly sticky. He feels…well, he feels like he’s just been drugged to the eyeballs and then fucked six ways from Sunday. He stretches his arms out above his head, feeling the tendons pop and stretch deliciously, and lets out a little contented moan. He feels _wonderful_ , actually. Mm, yes.

Sherlock looks, as he always does in sleep, completely and incongruously adorable. He’s on his side facing John, and has one fist curled up in front of his face, his nose buried in the crook of his thumb. A slight frown curls his mouth downwards slightly and he shifts in his sleep, pushing the blankets off his shoulder a little. John moves a finger to trace a line over the sharp edge of his collarbone and down through the fine fuzz of hairs on his upper arm. He gives in to the temptation to scoot over a little and lick the soft lobe of his ear, watching carefully for any sign of movement. Sherlock is a deep sleeper when he finally does succumb to human needs, but John has _plans_ for him. If he thinks he can just go ahead and fuck John while he’s drugged and sleeping (which, to be fair, he can, because _fuck_ that was gorgeous – John squirms a little, feeling the delectable sultry ache between his legs) he’s going to have to deal with the consequences. The delightful, morally dubious consequences. 

Slowly, he drags the covers down until Sherlock is left exposed in the middle of the bed. The air in the room is warm, humid, and Sherlock’s skin is hot and damp from sleep. Ever so gently, John manoeuvres him onto his back. Sherlock shifts a bit, but doesn’t wake. John moves slowly, stealthily. He hardly breathes as he gropes for the slim tube that Sherlock had discarded in such a hurry earlier. _Naughty naughty, Sherlock._

Determined not to wake him until the most opportune moment, John eases his legs apart delicately. Sherlock lets out a small noise, arching a little. He’s starting to get hard. _Interesting_. John watches curiously as his nipples tighten without any stimulation, and a flush starts to rise in his cheeks. God, he’s lovely. 

He slides his fingers into his mouth, then drags them tentatively from Sherlock’s navel down towards the damp, downy crease of his thigh, leaving a shiny wet trail. Sherlock’s cock plumps a little, twitches.

“Hello there,” John whispers, lowering his face to scent along the length of it. It smells hot; he flicks his tongue out to touch it gently.

At the same time, he oh-so lightly insinuates his fingers down into the hot space behind Sherlock’s balls. They’re still a little spit-damp and he presses them slowly but firmly inwards; Sherlock lifts his hips slightly. John withdraws, stripes a length of slick lubricant onto his fingers from the tube still next to them on the bed, then slides them back to where they belong, pushing inwards gently but insistently. It’s when he’s pushed three fingers into the hot clench of Sherlock’s arse that Sherlock suddenly tenses and jerks above him. John looks up to see a pair of wide eyes gazing down at him. They hood quickly as he twists his fingers with slow deliberation.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he murmurs, and taps the wet pad of one finger upwards. Sherlock bites his bottom lip, whines a breathy “Fuck, John,” into his upturned arm and tilts his hips upwards with a shudder, forcing John’s fingers deeper. John twists them, drags them out and hooks them back in again, making Sherlock spread his legs wider and groan. 

“That’s it,” John says breathily, “fuck yourself on my fingers, _yeah_.” He holds them still for a moment, watching as Sherlock rolls his hips, shivering desperately. He grasps and flutters around John’s fingers; moans, scrapes his teeth over spit-slick lips. John moves his other hand to press down on Sherlock’s stomach, holding him still as he starts to move his arm with purpose. Sherlock’s cock is flushed bright red, glans peeking wetly out of his smooth foreskin and dribbling fluid onto the back of John’s hand. He makes to move his hand down to wrap around himself but John quickly pins him to the bed, muttering a soft “Oh no you don’t.” Sherlock whimpers a little.

“ _John_ , I need--”

“I don’t think you’ve got any say in what you need, do you?” interrupts John with a particularly forceful thrust inwards. He pulls almost completely out, circles his fingers around the slippery rim, _watching_ as they slip easily back in. Sherlock’s gasping is irregular, muffled by his arm.

“Could you come like this?” John hooks his fingers more rapidly in and out, pushing deep before curling them upwards to drag them back.

“I, _God_ I don’t, I can’t--oh Jesus fucking, _ah_ ,”

John thrusts shallowly, teasing the sensitive skin of his rim a little. Sherlock’s legs spread wider, his hips tilt upwards and his mouth falls open on a silent gasp. His thighs are shaking and his breath comes in pants. John keeps the rhythm; shallow, fast, pressing upwards on each thrust. Sherlock’s clutching the sheets, white-knuckled. 

“Oh, _touch me_ ,” he grits out, “ _Christ_ , John, I’m so close,” 

John curls his hand tightly ‘round Sherlock’s hot-damp cock, thrusting his fingers inwards. Sherlock tenses, throws a hand over his mouth and comes almost immediately, cock pulsing, breath billowing out of his nostrils. The tightening of his arse around John’s fingers is absolutely exquisite, and he leaves them there, flexing them slightly to make Sherlock squirm and whimper into his arm.

John leans down to touch his tongue to the warm come pooling on Sherlock’s belly, then drags his hand, still sticky with lubricant, out to wrap shakily around his own cock. He jerks himself hard, viciously, and comes shuddering onto Sherlock’s softening cock, his concave belly. 

“For future reference,” says John, once they’re tangled stickily together under the duvet, “you’re definitely allowed to do that again.” 

“Um,” says Sherlock, “I probably--”

John shuts him up with a lazy, open-mouthed kiss.

“Oh, but--” their tongues touch softly, “ _wrong_ ,”

“And since when have you ever cared about _wrong_ , Sherlock?”

The last thing he registers as he drifts off is Sherlock nosing gently at his collarbone; he can feel the sweet upwards curve of his lips against his skin.


End file.
